


Anadelphos

by cynicalRaconteur



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalRaconteur/pseuds/cynicalRaconteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Greeks have a word for a man without a brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anadelphos

**Author's Note:**

> I have found my niche, and it is linguistic fluff. Forgive me.

John told him to go to Mycroft.

He didn’t quite know why he hadn’t thought of it himself. Three hours after John had fainted, recovered, punched him, and apologised several times for opening a small cut on his cheekbone… but he still hadn’t considered anybody else. Not unusual for him to disregard the feelings of others of course, but he was usually aware of them.

It had been a highly emotional afternoon. He forgave himself.

Getting into Mycroft’s office was a doddle as always. The security was government standard, after all. He didn't bother to knock before shouldering the door open, suddenly nervous. Silently berating himself, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his sturdy coat. He’d missed it, while he was away, but it was his trademark in a sense, and anyway, he thought John could make some use of it.

“How many times must I-” Mycroft’s head swung up from his paperwork, eyes flashing. Sherlock shrunk back instinctively: Mycroft hadn’t been this angry since they were children. He looked…frayed around the edges.

His brother had stopped dead in the middle of his sentence. Sherlock wanted to make a cutting remark about following through, he had one all prepared, but the words dried and clung at the back of his throat.

The silence hung between them, heavy and dead. Sherlock bunched his fists in his pockets and then unclenched them, remembering that Mycroft would have tracked the movement effortlessly. It was a shock to realise how alone he had considered himself, for those three years. How superior, forgetting that his brother had always been that hop skip and a jump ahead. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t thought to tell him. He’d simply assumed Mycroft would know, as he knew everything.

Mycroft rose slowly from his mahogany desk, meticulously organising his papers as he stood. Sherlock fought the urge to move, fidget at least, but he didn’t want to break his brother’s rituals, or the tenuous doldrums that had filled the office. He was so focused on staying focused that he almost missed his brother’s approach until he was mere inches away. He forced himself to meet Mycroft’s eyes, but promptly gave up and stared at the ceiling, hoping that the scrutiny would end and this awkward reunion of theirs would end, so he could go back to John and tea and Chinese food.

And then Mycroft hugged him.

Not the perfunctory fraternal hug they were required to perform at every family function where their mother might see them, but a hug that crushed their ribs together and left Sherlock’s arms momentarily trapped until he worked them free and wrapped them, tentatively, around his brother’s back. Mycroft still had that extra inch on him, that forehead-width of height, and his hand cupped Sherlock’s head in a way that reminded him of photos Sherlock had seen of them as children: austere seven-year-old Mycroft, already in a suit, holding a fluffy-haired baby and supporting the skull carefully with the splay of his fingers.

He could hear Mycroft muttering. “Petit frère,” he said. “Brüderchen. Vivis.” _Little brother. Little brother. You live._

Sherlock swallowed his English words, hard, and picked up where his brother had left off, shutting his eyes and forgetting all the arguments, petty and monumental, had over the years. This was the brother who had lent him books on pirates, taught him rudimentary chemistry, quietly tidied away his early ventures into dissection with no more than a raised eyebrow.

“Adsum, frater. Tutus sum,” he croaked, throat rough. _I am here brother. I am safe._

Mycroft breathed a huff of laughter. “Chiastic word order. You always were dramatic.”

Sherlock felt a reluctant smile bloom on his lips, thinking of afternoons with the great Latin scholars. Cicero, with his patriotic flair, had always appealed to him. _O tempora, o mores._

“You were always boring,” he replied, and Mycroft withdrew his arms as if they had been merely observing a formality. For a moment, Sherlock felt slightly lost at sea, but he orientated himself quickly. It wouldn’t do to start expecting that kind of thing.

The sentimental interruption was clearly over: regular programming must now resume. Mycroft returned to his desk and his country; Sherlock turned for the door. In fact, he had opened it and was preparing to leave when he worked up the courage to confess.

“I thought you knew.”

He refused to move his head even remotely in Mycroft’s direction.

Mycroft snorts. “Of course you did. Close your door on the way out, won’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t, obviously.


End file.
